Team Free Will: Reunion
by AWetCarrot
Summary: Picks up right after 7x16. Roughly follows Born-Again Identity, but Sam gets taken to a very different institution. There's no Meg, and no slash: I prefer bromance. Featuring a much more powerful Hallucifer, because he deserves to be more than just annoying. First Fanfic.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing I'm writing about.**

**Alternate Born-Again Identity:**

**Because it's ridiculous that nobody recognizes Sam or Dean after Slash Fiction. **

**This story is already finished so expect frequent updates. May you find it more entertaining than a wet carrot.**

* * *

THURSDAY NIGHT

Sheriff Briar finishes the dregs of his beer and stands as he slaps the cash on the counter.

"That it for the night, Phil?" the bartender asks, with that annoying sympathetic smile of his.

"Ya thanks, Hank. See you tomorrow."

Heading for the door, Briar forces a grin on his face as he nods his way past a couple of his deputies. Pep's bar-being a short walk from the Sheriff's Department-always fills with law enforcement, but Briar has long since tired of trying to hang out with his guys in here. There is something awkward about being around your boss outside of work, apparently.

Or maybe his depression scares them all away after what happened to his best friend, Charles Osborne: a sheriff from the department in Ankeny. Briar can't even find it in himself to focus on the supposedly unrelated murders that have been happening across town lately. They have each case solved and then another murder happens.

_When did the world stop making sense?_ Briar asks himself. As he pushes his way out the door for the lonely walk home, and he can't help reflecting for the millionth time on his friend's disappearance.

Charles had caught those two murdering psychopaths. He CAUGHT them. Briar's best friend since high school slapped cuffs on the two most dangerous killers in America, and he was so proud of him. But then he remembers: 4 deputies dead, Charles missing, and the murderers apparently killed in the fray but for SOME reason the bodies were rushed to the crematorium and never recovered by the Feds.

Briar snorts in disbelief, _These guys have faked their death at least twice before and the FBI just signs off on the case because a sheriff-who goes missing immediately afterwards-says they are dead? With no proof? And why would Charles have destroyed the bodies?_

There isn't a doubt in Briar's mind that his friend was blackmailed and murdered. The two most dangerous men in the country are 'dead' again, and for some reason, he is the only person who can see that for the bullshit it is.

Briar tried to get the FBI to see sense and reopen the case, but nobody was listening. He even did some investigating of his own but couldn't get far: any evidence from the scene was taken by the Feds.

Now 4 months have passed and those psychopaths are still out there. The alcohol in Briar's system makes it harder to hide his anger and he kicks at a dumpster sticking out of an alley; and it does a lot more harm to his foot than to the dumpster.

"For God's sake, fuck off!"

Briar startles at the voice, then sighs. _Great, another ornery drunk._

Off-duty or not, he is a sheriff and he needs to see if this guy is alright. He steps around the dumpster to take a look, but keeps his distance. He's had a few too many bad experiences with drunks in this town.

The man is sitting against the dumpster curled in on himself, and covering his shaggy-brown-haired head with his hands. He doesn't look homeless though: his plaid and jeans look relatively clean.

"You okay, buddy?" Briar asks gently.

The stranger lifts his head in response to reveal dark bags under his eyes, and a torment within the sunken hazel so blatant that Briar immediately concludes he is as far from okay as it gets. Pity swirls in his chest and he steps a bit closer, _Not an angry drunk_.

Briar tries to reassure, "Hey, it's alright. I'm-" and then he freezes. The pity dies and morphs into rage as recognition sets in.

This broken man before him, THIS is one of the monsters who killed his friend and many others. Briar will never forget the faces of the two brothers who slaughtered a diner full of people in St. Louis, and had the last survivor film the whole thing before they butchered him too.

Briar takes an unconscious step backward in shock, and tries to school his expression into one of calm understanding. He forces out the words, "I'll be right back... Let me call some help," and practically stumbles out of the alley grasping for his phone while keeping a watchful eye on the crumpled younger brother.

His dispatcher picks up, and he frantically whispers, "Get everyone you have to the corner of Dodge and State Street now!"-he has to pause for a shaky breath before continuing-"I was right... the Winchesters are alive."

* * *

24 HOURS EARLIER

"Hey. Found us a job," Dean announces as Sam comes back from a food run. His tone is rough and clipped, but it's as close to happy as it gets since they found evidence of Frank's brutal murder a day ago.

Sam groans. "God, Dean. I was only gone five minutes."

Dropping the chinese take-out on the table of the shitty-motel-room-of-the-night, Sam sits and tries to pretend he's interested in eating. Lucifer-who is currently reading the Bible on the nearest bed and giggling obnoxiously-has taken to making food look and taste rotten and mouldy and full of bugs. _Maybe chinese wasn't the best idea_, Sam grimaces as his noodles turn into wriggling worms.

"I'm thinking leviathans," Dean responds without looking up from the laptop.

"Listening."

"So there have been three murders over the past two weeks in this town Algona. Rich guys with lots of property getting blown away, all forensic evidence points to the wives and the cases get closed." Dean takes a second to pound back some whiskey from Bobby's flask.

Sam forcefully swallows a mouthful of worms and nearly gags: he can feel them wiggle all the way down. Feeling truly miserable, he tries to focus on his brother. "Okay, how does this seem leviathan related?"

"Three reasons: the wives have alibis at TODs, they all put out the 911 saying someone murdered their husbands while they were out, and some stuff was stolen."

"That sounds like a shapeshifter."

"Yeah, but all of the properties are already bought and payed for by Sucrocorp: AKA Dick... and chompers shapeshift too."

Sam processes this in his sleep-deprived stupor,_ I'm too tired for this. _"But... Sucrocorp is buying everything. It could still be a shapeshifter, and leviathans are just swooping in on the properties."

"Either way, it's a case and we're going," Dean replies in his not-bending-on-this voice.

"Fine," Sam exhales wearily. "Where exactly is it?"

Dean hesitates for just a second. "Algona, Iowa. Near Ankeny."

"What!?" Sam startles. The wriggling of worms in his gut is replaced with worry. "Where we faked our deaths... again? People there won't have forgotten us yet!"

"It's two towns North, and we will avoid the cops OK? People are dying and a monster needs killing. Suck it up, Samantha. It's only a few hours away and we're leaving tomorrow. First thing." Dean has his face set.

"I know you feel guilty about Frank, but-"

Dean almost explodes, "This isn't about feeling guilty! This is about beheading some of the assholes that killed him, and Bobby, and Cas..." and his voice drops away.

Any fight Sam has in him dies. _So this is revenge, _he mentally sighs. Nodding at Dean in defeat, he looks down at his bowl of worms so he doesn't have to see his brother's surprise or concern from him caving so quickly. _This is a bad idea,_ but he just doesn't have any more energy to argue.

Sam picks at his food quietly, and after a moment Dean grabs his own box of take-out and digs in with gusto: no doubt trying to distract himself. _Even verging on suicidal, Dean is always hungry, _Sam thinks sadly as he chokes on a particularly mobile noodle.

Dean raises his eyebrows at him, and looks like he wants to say something.

"It's nothing," Sam lies quickly, "Just went down the wrong tube..."

Lucifer cackles from the bed: obviously enjoying this whole situation. "Careful Sam, wouldn't want Big Brother to know your egg is more scrambled than he thinks it is."

Sam irritably presses his palm under the table to shut him up. The comforting pain is still there, but it only makes Lucifer's smile broaden.

Sam mentally braces himself for another night of pretending to sleep while the Devil drops firecrackers on him, and sings Stairway to Heaven several dozen times, and gently reminds him of everything that happened in the Cage.

* * *

THURSDAY MORNING

Dean wakes up the next morning with the familiar hangover. _Or perhaps it's withdrawal, _he wonders as he reaches for the ever-present and ever-needed flask of whiskey. Sam doesn't approve, but what the shit: Dean stopped caring about his health long ago.

He rolls off his bed, quickly noticing Sam's not in his, and that everything is already packed. Startled, he looks at the time: 6:16 am. _Wow. Maybe Sam wants to kill leviathans after all... Or Lucifer won't leave him alone and he still can't sleep_. Dean shakes that off and heads to the bathroom for his morning routine. _Nope. Not thinking about it. Sam would have told me, _he's bullshitting himself, and he knows it.

Sam started brushing off Lucifer questions after Frank died, and there's no way it's because he's getting better. But for the sake of Dean's sanity, he can't think about it right now. Sam is still walking and talking and lying and this big brother is actually grateful: there isn't really anything they can to do to fix him anyway.

Dean leaves the bathroom just as a pale Sam stumbles through the door carting coffee-to-go. The fragile Sam-is-okay bubble almost pops, but Dean manages to paste on a give 'em hell grin. "Lets go make heads roll," he announces as his morning greeting.

Sam smiles slightly in response.

They both might be falling apart at the seams, but they will be damned... again... if they can't pretend otherwise.

Several hours later they're in Algona, knocking on the impressive door of Edgar and Trish Mason: the owners of the massive property across from the site of the most recent murder.

"Okay... No cops, so we'll just have to be extra thorough with these people," Dean rattles off, already immersing himself in the hunt.

"Gotcha," Sam replies, looking like he might topple over and itching at his palms: they put on large silver rings and poured borax'd holy water over their hands when they got out of the car. It was Dean's genius idea to test for shifters, demons, chompers, (and a lot of other fuglies) at the same time.

The door opens. "How can I help you?" a short woman in her late 50's asks.

They flash their badges. "Trish Mason? I'm Agent Jones, this is my partner Agent Young and we'd like to talk to you about the murders over the past couple weeks," Sam recites in his very best FBI voice, which doesn't sound all that impressive when he slurs a bit.

Dean extends a slightly damp hand and Trish shakes it hesitantly, appearing totally weirded out when the 'agents' stare at the drawn-out handshake for a moment.

They relax when she doesn't start sizzling.

* * *

EARLY THURSDAY NIGHT

Dropping his stuff on the desk after an exhausting day of travel and interviewing character witnesses, Sam is ready to kill something and hopefully hit his head hard enough to pass out.

"So, we're sure then? The Mason's are next?" Sam is trying very hard to keep his voice down despite the fact that Lucifer is singing Eye of the Tiger at the top of his lungs a few feet away. He somehow hears Dean's response across the motel room.

"Yeah, fits the profile: they own the next largest piece of property in the area. Could be tonight since the Mrs. is going out."

"Alright," Sam struggles upright. "Lets go."

"Yeah, no I don't think so Sam, you're staying here and getting some rest. Look at yourself. You wouldn't be any help like that." He says it jokingly but Sam knows he means it, and it hurts.

"But-"

"No buts. I'll be back in a few hours with some chow, and maybe a chomper head. Stay put. Sleep," and with that, Dean's gone.

Sam bitch-faces: his hallucinations always gets ten times more annoying when Dean's not around.

"I thought he'd NEVER leave," Lucifer crows, abnormally excited. "What should we do now Sam? Maybe talk about how Dean thinks you're useless? How he knows something is different with you but he doesn't ask because he doesn't give a shit? He doesn't even want you on hunts anymore. I don't know why you chose him and Hell over me but you have to be regretting jumping in the Cage by now."

Sam tries to ignore it, he really does; but he can feel himself start to panic. He's suddenly having trouble remembering any good memories with Dean: they're all getting hazy. _Is Lucifer screwing with my memories now? He's never done that before... _

Sam snatches his laptop and searches up some effects of sleep deprivation,_ 'Slurred speech, hallucinations, paranoia, muscle tremors, extreme irritability... and memory loss.' SHIT, _and that is just for a normal person. What about somebody plagued with almost two centuries of torture and a version of their torturer dogging their every move?

His heart accelerates. _Memory loss. _Lucifer is picking through his memories and getting rid of things, and he can do nothing about it.

Then Sam's heart makes the jump to his throat. _He could make me forget I'm out of Hell..._

Lucifer notices Sam's expression of dawning horror and gives his widest smile yet. "Now there's the fear I've been missing! What is it Sammy? Read something you don't like? I'm surprised you're just realizing it now: the longer you go without sleep the more control I have over you... You are completely screwed."

_No... FUCK!_ Sam tries to stand up and fails miserably: knocking things off the desk and falling back in his chair. He glances down and numbly watches a pen roll away from him. _That's it!_ He grabs it and shakily writes on his left forearm: _'Not in Hell. Memory loss.'_

Lucifer steps closer, and Sam flinches away. "Come on!-Satan pouts-"Lemme read it!"

Eyes wide, Sam hugs his arm to his chest and backs against the motel wall.

"I don't think that's going to work, Sam," Lucifer purrs inches from his face, then grabs his wrist, twisting out.

Sam yelps, shocked. _He shouldn't be able to touch me... Since when can he touch me?! _

Lucifer laughs as he reads the words. "Aw, that's cute. You think that'll help? Fine, I'll let you keep it, but I don't think you'll have it long... I very easily could have put that there to screw with you."

Sam blinks, confused, _Put what where? _He follows Lucifer's line of sight to his wrist... _"You son of a bitch!"_ he shrieks, utterly hysterical. How could he have forgotten already?

He desperately tries to punch the evil bastard in the face but it goes straight through him and Sam almost throws his shoulder out.

Lucifer just glows like a child on Christmas morning. "Woah, take it easy! The fun's just begun."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about.**

**Alternate Born-Again Identity**

* * *

THURSDAY NIGHT

Dean feels a little awful hiding in the bushes next to the Mason's garage, watching Edgar work on his classic cars. _Leaving Sam like that even when he had his puppy eyes on full strength... As if I need more to feel bad about... _He can't even get excited about the cars since he misses his impala so much. Scowling, he reprimands himself, _Don't think about that stuff. I have a job to do._

He triple checks that he has silver rounds loaded, palms the machete in his coat a few times, and waits impatiently for the chomper or shifter to show. He had seen the real Trish leave half an hour earlier, and if the thing is going to come tonight, it's going to soon.

Then finally, after what feels like forever but may have only been a few minutes, 'Trish' appears in the garage doorway with pistol in hand. She doesn't even hesitate before emptying the clip into Edgar's head.

_Well so much for that rescue, _Dean thinks sarcastically before adrenaline and muscle memory take over and he's firing rounds into her chest.

Trish sputters and drops the gun as he charges her. Total shock written all over her face, she gasps, "Dean... Win..." and staggers into the wall. Dean is standing over her in seconds with machete arcing back.

"Winchester or wins? Both work," Dean replies like the smart-ass he is before slicing her head clean off. Victories are so very few and far between: it's important to savour them.

The monster's head and body hit the floor and Dean smiles. Then he glances at Edgar's riddled corpse. _Well... semi-victory_.

His phone rings suddenly, and-still riding the adrenaline high-he beams at the caller ID. _Perfect timing, Sammy._

* * *

EARLIER THURSDAY NIGHT

Sam knew it was pointless, but he couldn't help trying to run away... Even if it's his own mind he's running from. He ran and every time he stopped, Lucifer was there, laughing and taunting, and then he'd run some more. Eventually, Sam found himself curled against a dumpster in a decrepit alleyway like some druggie.

"Sam, what the fuck are you doing here? I told you to stay in the room!" Sam jerks his head up at hearing Dean, who is now standing over him looking utterly disgusted. "You honestly can't do anything right, you know that?"

Sam pulls his limbs in tighter and closes his eyes. _Not Dean. It's not Dean. Dean wouldn't say that... would he? _At this point he isn't sure anymore, and that scares the shit out of him. He looks up at his brother's face and his breath hitches; he's seen that disgust before, heard that disappointment before. Too many times to count.

And just as Sam starts to believe it might really be his brother, he looks at his arm. '_Memory loss.' Could Lucifer be giving me fake memories too? Times I've failed Dean? _He takes a calming breath and wills his racing pulse to slow. "You're not Dean," he forces through gritted teeth, "These memories are fake."

'Dean' grins sadistically and backs up. "Well, you're half right," he concedes, "I'm not your brother, but those memories are all real. I can't give you fake memories, but I can suppress real ones for a while. Hold on to that little snippet before I take it away too," he chortles and vanishes.

Sam chokes back tears, _He could be lying... Dammit... I'm so fucked up..._

After a few moments, he starts to appreciate the silence and lets his eyes droop shut...

Then Lucifer decides to kick the damned dumpster he's resting against.

Sam's exhaustion and frustration get the better of him and he shouts, "For God's sake, fuck off!"

"For God's sake? Really Sam? You think _that_ would get me to leave?"-Lucifer applauds- "I've got a genius on my hands!"

Sam covers his ears.

A stranger's voice pipes up then, "You okay, buddy?"

Raising his head, Sam sees some man in his 50's walking up cautiously. _Great. I bet I look like some insane homeless guy... Oh wait... I am. _

The man steps closer. "Hey, it's alright. I'm-" he stops suddenly with a curious expression. If Sam were firing on all cylinders and didn't have a film of unshed tears blurring his vision, he would have noticed the recognition. He seems to be in a hurry all of a sudden, and says, "I'll be right back... Let me call some help."

_What, am I bleeding and I don't know? _Sam crinkles his brow in confusion and looks at himself. _Not bleeding... Call some help... Help for what? Dean might know... Where is he? _

After taking a few minutes to persuade himself to move, Sam struggles to his feet. He's decided it's time to get back to the motel... and then realizes he has no idea how he got here or where here is._Maybe that old guy knows... and where is Lucifer? _He walks stiffly around the dumpster where said old guy is still on the phone, whispering urgently.

"Hey, can you... tell me where... I am?" Sam stutters out.

The old guy snaps the phone shut quickly, and looks at him like he can't decide to take a swing or run away.

_I must look awful, _Sam thinks sadly.

"Yeah, you're in Algona Iowa," he finally replies coldly.

Sam just sighs irritably and tries to find a street sign. _Right, thanks. I'm not that far gone yet._

And then the short old asshole grabs his arm.

Sam practically snarls at him, but the dude clearly doesn't take the hint and holds on, saying, "Don't go anywhere. Help's on the way."

_Help? Who can help...? _"You called Dean?" Sam asks confusedly, and is almost ready to reevaluate his opinion of this guy... if only he would let go of his arm.

"Yeah, that's right," the old guy nods quickly, "Just sit tight. He will be here in a few."

But then something isn't right. _How would he know to call him? How'd he even get his number? _Sam wrenches his arm out of the rough grip and backs up on high alert, ready to bolt.

It's at that moment, that 3 police cars pull up.

"Don't move you son of a bitch!" The stranger pulls a gun on Sam angrily, "You are never killing anyone ever again!"

Sam freezes. Suddenly it all comes back: writing the note to himself, running away... _'I can't give you fake memories but I can suppress real ones for a while.'_

Lucifer pops into existence again, laughing and clapping. "Wow... you really are one clueless son of a bitch."

The realization that he is royally screwed both inside his head and out almost drives Sam to his knees. A half dozen cops are out of the cars and pointing guns at him now. A few have tasers, but then he notices their black eyes.

_Demons,_ Sam is almost relieved. _But why do they all look scared shitless? _

"Get down on the ground with your hands on your head!" one of them shouts.

"Crowley told you assholes to lay off us!" Sam yells back and stands his ground. "Now fuck off before he shows up."

Lucifer laughs some more, then turns his own eyes black, "Aha, and they thought you were crazy before. They're not demons, Sam."

* * *

Sheriff Briar holds his gun steady and as much as he wants to silence Sam Winchester once and for all: he can't. The older brother-Dean-is still out there, and they might need the younger one alive to bring him in. But after meeting this guy, Briar can't help wondering how they've avoided the cops for so long, _What is this psycho even talking about? _He doesn't deny that he's terrified of said psycho, though: he's a giant.

"If you don't get on the ground now, we will shoot you!" Briar already told his guys not to, but the freak doesn't need to know that.

It doesn't look like Sam is listening though: he's not even looking at them. His eyes are locked somewhere on the building to Briar's left, chest heaving.

Normally, they would try and sweet talk someone as unbalanced as Sam into calming down, but he and his brother are mass murderers, and Briar doesn't really want to play nice. So, he grabs cuffs and a taser from a shaking deputy and approaches Sam slowly. The Winchesters have a scary reputation, and he doesn't blame his guys for not wanting to get close to one.

"Don't do anything stupid, Sam," Briar barks, just in case he is actually listening.

At the sound of his name, Sam looks at Briar with the most heart-wrenching expression he has ever seen, and the sheriff almost feels bad, _How does he do that?_

Then suddenly, Sam pulls his arm away from an imaginary force and yelps. That's when a deputy twitches and accidentally shoots him.

Briar is furious, _Dammit, who's the trigger-happy moron?_

Luckily, it's not a fatal hit to Sam's right shoulder and Briar expects him to drop; however, he only stumbles back and rolls with the momentum to turn and pelt down the alley.

"Hold fire!" Briar's heart jumps. He can't kill Sam, but he certainly can't let him go either. Deciding it's worth the risk, the sheriff aims his own gun carefully, and pulls the trigger.

On the second shot, Sam goes down. The bullet goes straight through his left calf and he trips. But then he's somehow up again, and running on a leg that has to be severely crippled. _Can he not feel pain or something? _Briar starts after him and his deputies finally grow some balls and give chase too. "Don't shoot him again!" he yells.

Despite two bullet wounds and a psychotic break, it takes a minute to catch Sam as he stumbles through the alley. And it still takes a taser to drop him for good and cuff his hands behind his back.

* * *

"DEAN!" Sam cries as he lies facedown, panting and desperately trying to rip his arms free of the cuffs. His muscles still aren't cooperating after the damned taser.

People are talking above him, but Sam can't focus on the words through his panic. He pretty much knows where he's headed: a maximum security padded room... alone with Lucifer. He doesn't have to imagine what that would be like. It was so stupid to lie to Dean and pretend he was okay... and why the hell didn't he stay in the room? _Dean is Stone #1, remember? Why didn't I just phone him!?_

Eventually, some of the feet in his line of sight start heading back down the alley, and a measure of control returns to his limbs. He can probably take out the remaining cops even in his current state, but only if he gets the cuffs off... and avoids getting shocked again...

With no lock picks in reach, Sam wrenches at his bindings and skin peels easily off his wrists. He can feel fresh blood dripping into the back of his shirt and coating the cuffs, making it easier to slide them off. His shredded shoulder burns in protest and drenches the cement beneath him, but he doesn't stop: he can't stop. He can't get locked away from Dean. Besides, this pain is a candle to the inferno of Hell.

Sam realized earlier that at any time, Lucifer can take away his memory of the warehouse: his anchor to reality. Dean brought him back from Hell in that warehouse by convincing him he really was out of the Cage. _Without that memory... It will be like I never left, _Sam thinks, horrified. But if Dean brought him back once, (more like twice) he has to believe he can do it again. That small hope has him more than prepared to skin his hands and tear his shoulder apart trying to get back to his big brother.

Before Sam can get too far though, someone is shouting and a knee is driven into his back. All of the air in his lungs is forced out and he's reduced to heaving into the filthy alley pavement. _No no no... I have to get back to the motel... I have to talk to Dean..._

The asshole cops roll him over, start wrapping his wrists tightly in a long cord, and put pressure on his gushing wounds. He is too winded to pull away when the lying old bastard goes through his pockets and pulls out his phone. All Sam manages in protest is a weak, "Fuck off!" and that gets ignored.

He closes his eyes and feels tears threaten again when he finally makes out what's being said over him, "Okay, fellas. We can assume his brother is nearby from what I've heard of their codependency. We might not have long before he realizes what happened..."

* * *

LATER THURSDAY NIGHT

Dean twirls his machete contentedly as red blood drips off the blade. _So, it was just a shifter. Good call, little brother. _He then flips open his ringing phone to share this discovery as he bags the shifter head: no need for Trish to see her own dead face when she comes home.

_"Dean?"_ a male voice asks hesitantly.

"Hey, Sammy. Perfect timing. Just cut that bitch's..." Dean trails off quickly. _Not Sammy_. "Who the hell is this?" he growls as his mood turns murderous instantly, "And how did you get that phone?"

_"Oh... Umm..." -_the guy seems to take a second to collect himself- _"I've got this guy named Sam here having a panic attack or something. He keeps asking for a 'Dean' so I'm using his phone to try calling him. Are you Dean?"_

Dean's gut plummets. _Sam can't crack... not now.._.. He puts a new adrenaline rush to use and starts moving. "Put him on the phone. Now."

The guy hesitates. _"Umm... I can't. He passed out. Are you going to come get him?" _

"Yeah. Where are you?" Dean is already back in the shitty car of the week-a puke brown and ancient volvo-and gunning the engine with a bagged head in the passenger's seat.

_"Algona. Corner of College and St. Jones. On a bench. You close?"_ The guy doesn't sound relieved.

_"_Yeah, probably. Don't touch him. Let him sleep, he's... got insomnia," Dean finishes lamely and hangs up. He drives with half a mind on the road and the other half on typing the street names into his phone's GPS.

* * *

Briar felt sick after snapping the phone shut. _'Hey, Sammy. Perfect timing. Just cut that bitch's...' _The sheriff honestly doesn't know how he followed through with the script after that little greeting: they were just as sadistic as he thought they were. _He was in the middle of carving some poor girl! And the way he said it so cheerfully... like he knew Sam would be pleased to hear about it..._

Briar is going to catch this fucker if it is the last thing he does. He goes over and over the ambush in his head, praying to God none of his guys get killed.

* * *

Dean face-palms over his mistake, _Probably best I don't talk about a kill over the phone..._ Hopefully the guy didn't hear him.

Moving on to the more pressing issue, _Dammit Sam... I told you to stay in the room... _But he's not mad at Sam: how could he be? It's not his fault he's cracking under the strain of all those memories. Dean groans and wants to break something: beheading one monster just doesn't cut it anymore.

_The dude sure sounded sketchy though... Way too nervous, _Dean reflects._ And since when do we catch a break with a good samaritan? _The more he thinks about it, the more weirded out he gets. _He said Sam was passed out..._ _That also sounds too good to be true_. Dean drags a hand through his hair and makes the snap decision to check the motel first: just in case this is some lame trap and Sam actually did as he was told for once.

Dean barely has the car in park outside the motel before he's scrambling outside. Their room's door isn't even closed properly.

"Sam!" Dean charges in. _No Sam_. He takes a quick mental picture. Not much moved since he left: salt lines still not up, bags still packed, beds untouched. Sam wasn't here long then.

Dean steps over to the desk, noticing some papers and pens scattered on the floor, and wakes up the laptop. A page entitled, '_Effects of Extended Sleep Deprivation,' _greets him. It's scrolled down to, _'After 5 Days...'_

Dean groans and gets back to the car as fast as he can. _So_ _Sam really hasn't slept at all since we dealt with Jeffrey in Idaho? Shit! _Suddenly Sam's freak out is a lot more understandable.

Dean takes a steadying breath as he pushes the crappiest car ever past its limit, and a thought occurs to him, _The dude on the phone says Sam was sleeping... If Lucifer hasn't let him sleep at all for 5 days, why would he let him pass out now? _The symptoms of sleep deprivation get a lot more awful past day 5... Satan himself wouldn't stop there.

So the ass-hat on the phone was lying and this is some kind of trap.

Now Dean is pissed: something has Sam. He should have realized it as soon as a stranger used his phone, _I really need to stop it with the optimism. _

After a few minutes of driving, Dean parks on the street a block away from where Sam is supposed to be. He doesn't know what to expect exactly, but he's sure as shit that Sam's not there. Still, springing the trap is the fastest way to figure out what they're dealing with, and he might be able to kill something: always a plus.

Dean gets out of the car and grabs the basics. He slings his rock-salt-loaded-pistol-grip-double-barreled shotgun and small jug of borax'd holy water over his shoulder, nestles his machete in his coat, slides Ruby's knife in the back of his jeans and keeps the .45 mm loaded with silver bullets in hand.

He quietly makes his way down a pitch black driveway that pops out next to the Jones and College intersection. The whole street is almost silent but for a few voices coming around the corner of the building to his right. _Gotta love small towns, _Dean thinks as he presses his back against the left building to look at the source of the noise while staying partially in the shadows.

Beneath a street lamp, 3 guys are staging a loud conversation about football next to a bench where another man-with shaggy brown hair and dressed in plaid-appears to be sleeping.

If the situation were less serious, Dean may have laughed. The group is about a stone's throw away and the guy on the bench has his back to him, yet Dean can still tell it's not Sam: he's not massive enough. _Sammy wouldn't even fit on that bench. _But Dean doesn't laugh: the impostor is wearing Sam's plaid shirt and there are flecks of poorly washed out blood all over it, and Sam is missing.

Dean's anger threatens to boil over and it's only by sheer force of will that he doesn't run out and shoot them all on the spot. Instead, he takes a quick look around the left corner to see if anyone else is around, and his precaution is rewarded.

Another guy is leaning against the front of the neighbouring building, less than 6 feet from the driveway mouth and from Dean. He's biting his lip and looking nervously in all the wrong places.

Dean shrinks back a bit, glad he stayed put, and takes a good look at him. He's small, young, blonde, and dressed in normal clothes, but Dean can tell he's packing something by the way he keeps twitching his right hand in a bulky coat pocket.

Dean glances back at the noisy group and makes up his mind. He pockets the gun, keeps his eyes on the 3 guys talking, and waits for their backs to turn on him. After a minute or so they do, and he takes his chance.

The hunter charges on silent feet around the corner and grabs the oblivious blonde's right wrist, twisting it behind his back, and Dean uses his inner elbow to tightly cover his mouth and nose to muffle the scream.

The kid doesn't even struggle all that well as Dean hurriedly lifts his dragging, noisy feet off the ground and carries him back down the driveway a safe distance for a chat.

"I'm going to let you breathe now. You try to scream again and you're dead," Dean promises as he removes his arm and slams the scrawny guy face first into the wall.

The kid gasps for air and starts shaking, but stays relatively quiet.

Dean takes that as a good sign and starts testing immediately, positive this thing is just playing him. He checks the guy's skin where his silver ring would have burned him: nothing. He grabs the jug and splashes borax and holy water in the kid's petrified face: nothing. _Shit._

"What the Hell are you?" Dean growls into his ear.

"Uh... Evan... Evan Baker!" the kid chokes with tears leaking out now.

Dean slices 'Evan's' palm with Ruby's knife, and is annoyed to see human blood. "I asked _what _you are, I don't want to know your fucking name!"

Now the kid is crying in earnest. He lets out great heaving sobs, but at least he bothers to keep his voice down as he says, "Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please don't kill me!"

Dean starts rifling through pockets and finds a bulky walkie-talkie with earbuds hooked up to the kid's left ear, hand cuffs, a gun, and ID for a '_Deputy Evan Baker...'_

Dean feels real fear build for the first time."You're... a cop...?"

Evan seems to lose his ability to stand on his own, and Dean-too shocked to move-lets him puddle to the ground.

Sam was taken by the police.

Panic sets Dean's brain into overdrive, _FUCK! I can't kill cops... They know I'm here... Sam's probably too screwed up to escape on his own... SWAT is undoubtedly on the way... We are so royally FUCKED._

Dean unconsciously backs up, staring at the deputy cowering before him, and glances at the walkie-talkie in his hand. _Thank God he didn't have the balls to use it this whole time... _

Dean mentally shakes himself back to action and decides it's time to get the hell away from the area: the kid could have missed a check in by now. He slaps the hand cuffs on Evan's ankles, strips the gun and snags the earbuds; shoving one in as he runs as quietly as he can from the _police_ set up.

Dean hears a voice sputtering over the line, _"-ive me something! Where is Baker!"_ It's scratchy, but Dean recognizes it all the same: it's the fucker who phoned him earlier.

_Now there's a cop I might end up killing, _Dean thinks furiously.

Evan seems to have regained a little composure at this point, and now he's yelling at the top of his lungs, "Help! Help! He's here!"

The walkie goes nuts, _"Cover's blown, get that block surrounded! Collins, Barry, head up Jones! Harris, he's coming at you!" _

Dean is almost to the next street when guns start going off behind him. _Guess they don't care about catching me alive... _

He rounds the corner and plows straight into an officer. _Harris,_ he guesses, and the impact knocks them both to the ground. Caught completely off guard, the cop barely lifts himself up before Dean knocks him out with a well placed kick to the head on his way by: there's no time for chivalry.

Not bothering to be quiet anymore, Dean's feet slap the pavement as he sprints back to his car, but he's too late: two more armed officers appear between him and the volvo, and he has no choice but to try to lose them on foot.

_"Baker is down and his walkie was stolen," _a new voice crosses the line.

_ "Shit! You listening Dean? Come in quietly and we'll let you see Sam." _

"Yeah, sure you will," Dean scoffs into the radio as he shucks the heavy jug off his shoulder and veers left across the street. "You really expect me to take your word for it after this little stunt?"

_"Listen here you sick fu-" _Dean promptly crushes the walkie in his fist and tosses it: they weren't going to say anything important now anyway.

"Freeze, Winchester!" a voice shouts far enough away that Dean feels safe ignoring it.

He quickly finds himself in suburbia and decides fence-hopping is his best bet. He jumps fence after fence and crosses at least three roads before feeling confident he's lost his tail.

Panting, Dean slumps against somebody's back deck. He can't stop for long though: he needs to get back to the motel and hide all their stuff before the cops find it. _Good thing I didn't leave anything important in that piece of shit car. Except for... Oh fuck..._

After a short breather, Dean is back to his feet and running again; albeit a lot slower than earlier. He pulls out his phone and regrettably snaps it in half, tossing the pieces in a bush. _Cops are probably trying to trace it... Or they sent the number to the FBI and they're definitely tracing it. _

Frank's precautions really get on Dean's nerves: he would hot-wire himself a new car, but he can't risk setting off an alarm with the cops so far up his ass. _Wanted again... Awesome._

It takes Dean a good fifteen minutes to get back to the motel, but he still beats the cops. There probably aren't many officers in a town this size anyway, and he's sure that's the reason he hasn't been caught yet.

Grateful for the fact they hadn't unpacked much, Dean gathers their things after a few quick Google searches into the town's law enforcement, and is out of there in no time.

He scratches his head absently as he walks down the empty street. _Now, where to go... _

He wants to break into the Sheriff's Department and find Sam, but then he remembers Sam's shirt on the impostor, _It had bloodstains all over it, and those certainly weren't there last I saw him... He might be at the hospital. _The thought has Dean ready to explode: Sam is undoubtedly out of his mind with fear and exhaustion, strapped to a hospital table and getting mind-fucked by Satan while people poke at him. _How did our lives become... this!? _

Taking a deep breath in the night air, Dean bites back his frustration and tries to figure out what to do. He knows he can't just rush in without planning first, but Sam is suffering.

_ Hospital doctors and most cops are generally not complete assholes. Maybe they would actually be able to help if they knew what was wrong..._ Dean frowns. _Yeah right... They all think we're emotionless monsters, _and the idea of asking someone else to help Sam because he can't has him wanting to stab someone. _At least I don't have to ask nicely... The world does think I'm a mass murderer after all..._

After breaking into a foreclosed house just down the street from the motel, Dean stuffs their bags in some kitchen cupboards and slides to the grimy tile floor, utterly exhausted.

_I could try some kind of hostage exchange... _But he quickly dismisses the thought. There would be no escaping and the whole thing would take too much time: he doesn't have time...

Releasing a sigh and putting his game face on, Dean pulls out one of his many back up phones to call Sam.

The same guy as before picks up, _"Ready to come in, Dean?"_

"Not quite yet. You know, I'd really like to call you something besides 'Deceptive Asshole Cop,' you got a name?" Dean mentally pats himself on the back, _zing!_

_"You can just call me 'sir' I'd rather a sicko like you didn't know my name. You understand."_

"Yeah I understand, _Phil Briar; _but it doesn't take much for a_ sicko like me _to Google the name of a town's sheriff these days. How's your sister? Still at 42 East Lucas?" Dean purrs into the phone.

He lets himself grin, _Playing the bad guy _is_ fun. Who knew? _He's not even going to bother acting innocent anymore. The whole world has footage of Sam and him slaughtering a diner full of people and winking for the camera. There will be no plea of not-guilty for the Winchesters.

There's a pause on the line, then the sheriff sputters, _"Why are you c-calling me? Where are you?" _He sounds like he's having a coronary.

"Relax. I'm not at your sister's. Don't be so dramatic,"-Dean pauses for effect-"But, I could be..."

_"There are officers on their way to get her right now. You won't touch her," _the sheriff replies a little more confidently.

"Maybe not..." Dean reasons, "But your resources are limited, and you got a whole town of people to keep safe. And trust me when I say, they're not safe, Phil. Not at all... Did you find our car yet?"

Briar hesitates, then seems to chew on his words before spitting them out, _"Yes... and you are so screwed you don't even-"_

Dean interrupts, "Oh, good then you got my gift. Remember, until your help shows, every person in this ugly hick town of yours is my hostage... Think about that. I'll be calling again in a few minutes to talk to Sam. I suggest you drop the attitude by then."

Dean hangs up and checks the call time: 1 minute and 46 seconds. _Is that long enough for a trace? _Dean wishes he could remember if Frank talked about it._ Or would they be able to trace the phone with just a number? Good thing we don't put all these back up phones in our contact lists, _he thinks as he smashes Phone #2 to pieces.

Thinking over the conversation, Dean feels a little bad. He no doubt scared the bejesus out of the cops when they found the volvo: there was a shifter's head in the guise of a sweet older lady bagged in the front seat. The sheriff probably knows Trish too... But then Dean thinks of Sam's current Hell and he doesn't feel bad anymore. _Good. Now he seriously thinks I'm gonna start dropping bodies._

Dean takes a long swig out of Bobby's flask, picks out another spare cell phone, and walks outside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about.**

**Alternate Born-Again Identity**

* * *

THURSDAY NIGHT

Sam squeezes his eyes shut against the bright lights and tries to relax. He's strapped to a table and several people in surgical masks are sticking pointy metal things into his shoulder for some unknown reason... But he's not curious as to why: there's always something tearing at him in the Cage.

_No! Not the cage! I'm out! Didn't I get out? _There are so many drugs running through his system that he can't keep his thoughts in his head anymore. He mumbles at the operating room ceiling, "I'm out... Dean said... got me out!"

"No he didn't, Sam! You're just deluding yourself. Where is Saint Dean while these awful people torture you? Hmm?" Lucifer speaks softly and starts doodling on Sam's face with a marker. "He stood back and let you jump into the worst Hell _possible _to suffer for all eternity. You really think he cares for you? Would bother rescuing you?"

"Yes! He tried didn't he?" now he's beseeching.

Lucifer feigns distress, "No, he didn't! Nobody cares about you but me. How many times do I have to beat it into you?"

Then Sam gets his memories back, and he's pissed. "Shut up and get out of my head!"

"Oh, I think thats the longest suppression yet! I'm getting better at this, buddy!" Satan gives him an affectionate bop on the nose.

Sam can't hold in the groan of despair as he tries to twitch out of reach. Of all the tortures he's endured, Lucifer's touch is the worst.

In the Cage, the Devil never held the knife himself-he was almost always kind in person-he just created _things_ to do the carving for him. It was a sick game he played to make Sam believe that he wasn't actually responsible for the abuse. So in retaliation, Sam fought to convince himself that the worst agony is Lucifer's affections.

One of the doctors raises his eyebrows as Sam jerks away, "Take it easy, the bullet's almost out," he tries to reassure.

Another doctor whispers, "Is he not feeling the pain meds either? What the hell is wrong with this guy?"

_God... please... just let me die... _And then Sam's anchor is ripped away from him again, and he's hurled straight back into Hell...

* * *

1 HOUR LATER

After a short walk, Dean is in the middle of a small woodlot. It's almost pitch black and he makes sure he's alone before he phones Briar back.

_"What do you want?"_ the sheriff practically spits out as he answers.

Dean decides he's ready for the questions. "What did you do to my brother? And don't sweet-talk me. I saw the blood on his shirt."

_"He resisted arrest so we shot him. He's stable now though. Physically anyway... What did _you_ do to him? He's a stark-raving lun-"_

"Careful Phil, what did I say about that attitude?" Dean takes a second to collect himself, _This guy is so dead. _"I guess I can't convince you to let us both go and we pretend this never happened? Nobody else has to die."

_"Not a chance. You won't stop killing people, Dean. Psychopaths like you never do... until they're caught." _

Dean sighs, _It was a long shot anyway_. "Put Sam on the phone."

_"I'm not with him."_

"Don't insult my intelligence, Phil. You, and probably all of your deputies are with my brother. Put him on the phone." Dean's patience is wearing thin and he's pacing through the trees.

Briar seems to be stalling, _"He's not exactly lucid at the moment. He won't even underst-"_

But Dean's had enough and he snaps, "If you don't put my brother on the phone right-fucking-now you will have another body on your hands. And I get _creative _when I'm pissed."

There is a silence, and then a muffled, _"talk," _through the line.

"Sammy?" Dean's heart rate picks up when there's no immediate reply.

Then, _"What?"_ Sam's voice sounds far away: they're on speaker phone.

"Hey," Dean breathes out, relieved. "I got the shifter, Sam, and I know the cops are after me. Just sit tight and I'll find a way to fix all of this, alright? I'm getting you out." He says it all quickly in case Briar thinks they're speaking in code and hangs up on him.

_"Shut up! I'm not falling for it again."_

"What?" Dean stops his pacing, heart hammering.

_"Stop pretending to be... Him!" _Sam sobs into the phone. "J_ust take me back to the Cage. You win."_

Now Dean is horrified. _He thinks this is all fake... _"Sammy, we've been over this! This is not the Malibu Dream Mansion, and you know it... you're just forgetting! Day 5 of sleep deprivation, remember?" he pleads.

_"No! I'm not getting... Dean!" _Sam's tone shifts from pissed to relieved almost instantly, and he's forcing the words out with some difficulty, "_Lucifer can screw with my memory now, and he's not going to let me sleep... till I'm dead. Please don't come for me... it's not worth it."_

Dean puts his game-face back on. _So, you're still in there._ "No way. Don't start with that crap. I'm not letting you give up, Sam, and don't you dare ask me to leave you in Hell again, or you're getting your ass kicked. Just sit tight and wait for me."

_"Dean..." _Sam sounds exasperated, and the bitch-face can practically be heard.

Dean lets out a broken chuckle. "See you soon, bitch,"-he clears his throat-"Briar, I still gotta talk to you."

_"I'm here," _the sheriff responds. He sounds closer: no longer on speaker.

Dean drops his mask drop again."I don't know if you followed any of that, but my brother... just... see if you can drug him out or something, okay? He'll be fine if he gets some sleep." _Maybe..._

_ "The doctor's already pumped him full of sedatives, but he won't go under. They don't think he feels pain killers either. What the hell is that about?" _Briar asks, sounding totally out of his element.

Dean groans in distress and pulls at his hair. _Shit. Shit. SHIT! This is so much worse than I thought... _"Could you at least... lock him somewhere without restraints? I'm sure he has trouble with them."

_ "That would explain why he nearly skinned his hands trying to get the cuffs off," _Briar replies, thoughtful.

Really wishing he didn't hear that, Dean chokes out, "Please. Just help him," and hangs up.

He checks the call time: 4 minutes, 13 seconds. _Somebody probably traced that one. _Dean drops the phone in the woods, hoping somebody wastes their time trying to find it, and jogs back to the foreclosed house.

Once there, he grabs his bag out of the cupboard and empties it on the kitchen floor. _There has to be something here I can use to get to Sam..._

He looks at the 2 remaining cell phones and toys with the idea of calling someone for help. But Dean quickly realizes, _All of our friends are dead... __Everyone. Cas, Bobby, Frank... and now I'm losing Sam... _It's just one hit after another.

Suddenly, a cold breeze comes through the window and a certain rumpled trench-coat is blown onto Dean's shoe. It had been left at the bottom of his bag since he pulled it out of the river all those weeks ago.

_Aw Cas, _Dean thinks miserably. He never really got the chance to mourn his friend properly. He's had so much other shit to deal with... And now he's feeling as alone as he was during those agonizing minutes in Stull cemetery.

'Team Free Will' had just saved the world, and Dean was the only one left. Sam had jumped into the Cage, bits of Cas were all over the place, and Bobby was lying dead of a broken neck. If Cas hadn't been resurrected and brought Bobby back, Dean probably would have eaten a bullet right there... Hell, he might have even opened the Cage again and jumped in himself.

Looking down at the grimy coat, Dean frowns as he remembers. _Cas tried to bring Sam back too. _Maybe Cas couldn't get all of him, but he tried. And if he hadn't tried, Dean might still be drowning in disguised misery with Lisa and Ben, and he may never have gotten the real Sam out the Cage.

"Cas!" he cries at the cracked and stained ceiling. "It's Dean. Where are you, man? And don't tell me you're dead. You've come back too many times for me to believe that... We need you down here..."

It's the first time he's prayed to the angel since before his betrayal, and Dean can't help but hope that maybe he's just been hiding out somewhere... _Maybe he's been waiting for me to call..._ His pulse quickens as the seconds tick by.

Dean is still angry of course, and doesn't even know how he would react if Cas actually shows up. Yes, the angel was sorry at the end, but he's the one who broke Sam's head in the first place...

A minute passes... Nothing. Dean curses himself for getting his hopes up. He's on his own. Sighing, he puts the trench-coat back in his bag and looks at his other things. His eyes dance over matches, herbs, chalk, and a new idea forms...

* * *

Emmanuel shoots straight off the couch with a gasp. _What in the world was that? _It was like a voice seared straight into his brain, leaving his heart pounding. He knew the words were meant for him. _Cas? What an odd name... Could it really be mine? And who is Dean...? Does he think I'm dead?_

Emmanuel takes a calming breath. He knows nothing about who he is, only that he's different. He somehow heals people's ailments with nothing but a desire to, and he doesn't need sleep or food like everyone else... But hearing somebody calling for him telepathically? That's new. _Could__ this Dean be like me...? _Emmanuel clears his throat and answers aloud, "Umm... Dean? Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

No response. Emmanuel frowns with disappointment. This Dean is asking for his help, but he has nothing to go on besides a first name... All he can do is wait and hope he gets called on again with more information.

* * *

Briar scratches his chin absently as he watches Sam flinching frequently on the stretcher in his cell. There are two deputies just outside the bars with the sheriff, and another six are stationed throughout the building. There would have been two more officers, but Harris is in the hospital with a slight concussion, and Baker is damn near catatonic after having a conversation with Dean. Briar doesn't blame the kid a bit.

_This is hardly enough guys, _the sheriff thinks anxiously. The Feds say SWAT's about an hour away and Briar can only pray they manage to bag the older brother before he shows and rips them all to shreds.

He thought he was handling the situation pretty well considering who he was dealing with, and then Dean phones and he's reduced to a stuttering mess.

Briar has seen photos of some of the Winchester's murders. How they torture and dismember... and to have that monster threaten his _sister_... his Sara... Briar called her as soon as he got the chance to make sure she was okay and tell her to leave town _immediately. _He didn't have any spare hands to ensure her safety. They were both in tears before they hung up.

Needless to say, the sheriff did _not_ cater to Dean's wishes of freeing Sam from the restraints. According to their reputation, the little brother is just as dangerous as the older, and this law man is taking no chances. So Sam remains strapped down to the hospital gurney despite left over sedatives in his system keeping him immobile anyway.

Briar had the younger Winchester moved to the Sheriff's Department following the patch-ups to his wrists, shoulder, and leg. The doctors had been most curious about his apparent immunity to drug-induced sleep, and wanted to run some tests, but they were more than happy to discharge Sam when they learned of the big-brother-shaped threat to the hospital if he stayed.

Briar frowns and tries not to pity the monster through the bars. He is pale from blood loss, coated in sweat, and breathing rapidly. Ever since they put him in the ambulance he has alternated between pleading with someone who isn't there, yelling at someone who isn't there, and the current behaviour of trembling with a creepy vacant expression. Not once had Sam acknowledged or even looked at a real person since his arrest, until he heard Dean's voice over the phone. It was like a fog lifted off him and he came back to life.

Briar reflects on the conversation that followed: it was one of the strangest exchanges Briar had ever heard, and if he ignores some of the bizarre jargon, it was really quite sad. Well, it would have been sad if the brothers weren't mass-murdering codependent psychopaths who killed his best friend and countless others and threatened his sister.

* * *

Dean strikes a match and drops it into a bowl. Smoke billows and an acrid odour fills the kitchen as the reagents burn. Summoning complete, Dean picks up Ruby's knife as he waits. _This was such a bad idea... _

"Weren't planning to use that on me, were you, Squirrel?" the smarmy demon asks, popping into the room.

"Depends," Dean greets hesitantly.

"I see. What have I done to offend this time?" Crowley drawls as he glances around the room: checking for Devil's Traps, no doubt.

Dean regards him carefully. _So, he does learn. _"No traps today, Crowley. We need your help."

The demon stares at him. "And what, may I ask, have you two Neanderthals gotten yourselves into this time? Started another apocalypse?"-he looks around the room again-"Where's Moose?"

"Not sure where, but he's been taken by local cops. I want you to spring him." Dean can't keep the grimace off his face as he speaks.

Crowley looks absolutely delighted. "What? Sam and Dean Winchester can't kill their way through a few empty meat-suits?"

"They're humans, Crowley," Dean growls. "We can't just kill them, and they are actually smart enough to carry guns. Unlike your piss-poor demons."

"Oh Squirrel. That conscience of yours is going to be the death of you... again. What drove you to call me? Run out of friends to die for you?"

Dean's temper flares, but he manages to keep it out of his tone. "You want us to gank leviathans. We can't do that behind bars."

"And how many have you bagged exactly? Three? Four? Marvelous job so far. Convince me why I shouldn't just gut you right now and leave your precious moose to rot." Crowley tilts his head with a little smirk.

Dean's grip on the knife tightens. "Alright, you still owe us for saving your ass from Lucifer. Get Sam out and we're even. We'll even drop Dick for you. Free of charge."

The demon raises his eyebrows. "If you don't recall, I gave you the Colt, Pestilence, and Death's coordinates. I owe you nothing."

Dean bristles at that. "The Colt was useless, and Bobby sold his_ soul _to find Death. But you're right: you don't owe me, you owe Sam. Hell, everything living thing on this fucking planet owes Sam for jumping into that pit."

Crowley looks thoughtful and doesn't respond right away. "Fine, I'm feeling generous. I'll give you his location." Then he vanishes.

Dean hardly has time to say, "Well fuck you very much," before the demon is back.

"He's tied and trussed in the town jail: 121 West State street**.** Total of 9 mooks... Looks like they know you're coming." Crowley sounds bored as he relays the info. He then pulls a police brochure out of his jacket, drops it on the floor, winks, and disappears.

Dean sighs, lowers Ruby's knife, and picks up the brochure. _Well, that could have gone much worse... Sorry, Sam. I'm coming now._

* * *

"Yes, sir... thank you." Briar shuts his cell and lets out a pent up breath he didn't know he was holding. He smiles at his deputies in relief, announcing, "SWAT's almost in town," and heads to the front doors to meet their saviours.

* * *

It's now just past midnight and the Algona streets are calm. This time, Dean comes armed with 2 rock-salt-loaded shotguns; one in hand and one slung over his back. He carries extra rounds in his coat, and his .45 mm in the back of his jeans. The rock salt rounds will hurt-as Dean knows from personal experience-but they won't kill anyone. As pissed as Dean is, these guys think they're getting rid of two monsters, and he doesn't want to kill them for it. The .45 is coming along just in case... things don't turn out well.

Dean circles the red brick Sheriff's Department from a safe distance. The building has three entrances: main door at the front, side by the driveway, and back facing a small parking lot. He settles for the side door.

_This place is tiny, _Dean realizes, annoyed. It's unlikely he can sneak in and start taking guys down without everyone else hearing it, but it's his only option.

After closer inspection, Dean notices a security camera by his door of choice. _Shit... they're gonna know I'm here as soon as I start picking the lock... _Dean puts his weary brain to work, glad he's kept his distance until now. _If I can take out the cameras, at least they won't know which door I take..._

He scans the building's wall and grins. _Power lines. No way this place has a generator. _Dean follows a thick hydro wire down the wall to where it feeds a rectangular power box. Not having a clue how it works, he backs towards the parking lot, pulls out his .45, and shoots the cable. It snaps and sparks angrily, and he sprints for the back door, knowing he just announced his whereabouts in the most obvious way possible.

Reaching the door, Dean crouches to fit in his lock picks, and startles when the door is already open. _Was this thing locked electronically? What a stupid idea. _

He steps into the pitch black building and grins as he hears cops running and swearing and shouting for flashlights. He kind of wishes they'd hurry up and find some: he can't see anything either. Though, he doesn't really need to see to know where to go.

The brochure Crowley gave Dean earlier has a small floor map of the building for some community open-house, and he took the time running here to memorize it. Now, it's just a small matter of groping his way around corners as silently as possible.

Dean holds his trusty shotgun in his right hand as he drags his left across the hallway wall, counting doorways as he goes. _Third door on the left, straight through the room to next doors, first left..._

He quickly takes note of panicked breath and squeaky shoes coming up behind him, so he pauses in his search and turns. Whoever the guy is has no idea how to fight in the dark, and it takes Dean about 2 seconds to put him in a rear choke hold. Another 6 seconds and the poor dude is out cold on the floor. Dean pats him down and scores a rifle, cuffs, and the keys for them. Pocketing the keys and ammo clip, he cuffs the guy's ankle and wrist together, then gets back to finding the correct door.

By this point, there are flashlight beams popping up around corners, and it gives Dean enough stray light to start running.

"He's in the building!" a petrified yell echoes behind him. "He got Collins!"

"Everyone get to the cells and calm down, for fuck's sake!" Briar's equally hysterical voice responds.

Dean doubles his speed. _They're going to center on Sam. This sheriff has a decent head on his shoulders after all... Awesome..._

Taking the last turn at a full on sprint, Dean kicks open the door into a tiny cell block with both shotguns raised. He hits two of the three deputies square in the chest, and they fly back into the cell bars with a clang and slump to the ground. But the last deputy-a lady-manages to get a shot in before Dean has time to drop his extra gun to pump the other and fire again. The bullet sails under Dean's left arm and grazes his side, but does nothing to hinder his aim and another deputy hits the floor.

Dean has just enough time to feel awful about hurting a girl before a heavyset man peels around the corner behind him. A fourth shotgun blast and he too drops.

A silence fills the building outside the cell block and the officers stop coming. All that can be heard are coughs from the fallen deputies, and spent shell casings rattling across the floor.

Dean picks up a stray flashlight and takes the opportunity for a quick look at the whole reason for this break-in.

Sam is lying with his chest and arms strapped to a wheeled hospital gurney in the nearest cell. He's wearing only torn jeans and is covered in bandages. His skin looks deathly pale in the flashlight beam... and he's glaring at Dean with complete hatred.

_He must have forgotten again, _Dean's heart sinks. _Dammit, brother... I'm not just Lucifer fucking with you... _But he has no time to spare for talk, and instead takes quick stock of the place.

The room is square, and contais 3 cells. One cell in each corner but for one where a small desk is situated. There is a swivel chair, filing cabinet, a tall metal desk lamp, extra guns and ammo, and a couple of tear gas canisters. Solid double doors separate the room from the hallway, and there are no windows.

Making up his mind, Dean rolls the chubby deputy out of the room, takes his gun, and closes the double doors. He grabs the desk lamp, smashes the head onto the floor, and sticks the shaft through the door handles.

Next, he heads for the wounded deputies, who play dead as Dean searches them and takes their guns and tasers. _Awesome, _he thinks as he also scores a ring of keys to the cells and drags the limp officers into one and locks them in.

Dean then pushes the swivel chair over and wedges it against the room's doors, effectively locking them all in, and takes a quick breather. He checks the graze on his left side and is surprised to see his shirt drenched in blood. _Huh... barely even felt it, _Dean recalls. Not having the time or patience to deal with it, he unlocks Sam's cell.

Noticing Sam's expression of loathing hasn't changed, Dean sighs and drags his hand over his face. "Sammy, I'm here to get you out... C'mon, drop the bitch-face."

There's a bang on the door as somebody outside kicks it. A voice cries, "He's locked himself in, sir! You are not getting away with this, you hear me? Fucking bastard! You're both dead!"

Dean groans and ignores the voice, locking eyes with his brother who looks like he's on Death's door. _One shit-storm at a time... _"Sammy, please... you aren't in Hell anymore and I'm not just some hallucination! Give me a reason to think you're still in there..."-he chokes out the last bit when tears threaten-"Or I'll end it... for both of us." He holds up his .45 mm and forces a gentle smile on his face. He only says it to get a reaction from Sam, but he quickly realizes that if it doesn't work... _What exactly would I be living for with you gone, little brother? _

Thankfully, it does get Sam's attention. He jerks violently and his hateful gaze disappears, being replaced with one of utmost torment. "Dean!" he gasps, "You have to get out now! I heard the sheriff on the phone... SWAT will be here any minute. Please, you can't get us both out."

Dean lets out a watery chuckle of relief and puts the handgun back in his jeans, saying, "Shut up, Sam. You don't get to tell me what to do," and starts wheeling Sam's stretcher out the cell door. He can't exactly run out with a busted leg, but the gurney is the next best thing.

Before reaching the double doors, Dean pauses to reload the shotguns and asks partly joking, but mostly serious, "I let you sit up, can you handle a gun? Or you gonna start shooting me?"

Sam frowns and opens his mouth like he wants to bitch, but then the fight seems to leave him and he just looks miserable. "Probably best I stay down."

Dean nods solemnly and rests shotgun #2 on Sam's chest. Removing the propped chair ever so quietly, he puts his ear to the door and listens for any movement in the hallway. He hears nothing so he turns off the flashlight, plunging the room into darkness, and opens one of the doors a fraction with the lamp still in the handles. He can just make out 3 shaking beams of light trained on the door before he closes it again.

_Now what? We can't exactly wait for them to leave, _Dean fumes. _If SWAT shows up... _He jumps when something tugs on his coat, but it's just Sam trying to get his attention. He flicks the flashlight back on and looks at his brother.

"Tear gas," Sam whispers, looking at the desk.

Dean feels a rush of gratitude for the kid and pats his undamaged shoulder affectionately. Even sleep-deprived, insane, anemic and drugged out, his little-big genius comes through.

Grabbing a tear gas canister, Dean quickly reads through the tiny diagrams printed on the side explaining how to use it. The thing looks like a grenade and apparently works the same way.

Dean sighs: he knows how tear gas works. _This will be unpleasant, _he thinks, and glances down at Sam. "Eyes and mouth closed till we're clear... and hold your breath."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about.**

**Title Change! Team Free Will: Reunion**

**Thanks for reviews. Second-to-last update.**

* * *

FRIDAY EARLY MORNING

_Dean sighs: he knows how tear gas works. _This will be unpleasant,_ he thinks, and looks at Sam. "Eyes and mouth closed till we're clear. And no breathing."_

* * *

Sam blinks an affirmative when he really just wants to yell and break things. He is so pissed at Dean for coming... but he is also beyond grateful, and resolves to crush his brother in a bear hug if he ever gets off this shitty stretcher.

Lucifer is leaning against the desk and glaring at Dean like he stole his favourite toy, and Sam supposes he did. During the brother's conversation on the phone, Lucifer must have realized that he can't yet suppress Sam's memories when Dean is around. So as some sick retribution, he had a 'Dean' spend the next hour berating Sam and ripping through his innards with a swiss-army knife.

Sam snaps back to the present when bullets ping against the metal doors in response to Dean shoving a tear gas canister through a partial opening. He quickly slams the doors shut again and pulls the lamp rod out of the handles with a little smirk. There is audible swearing and tripping in the hallway as the canister spews it's noxious fumes and deputies get the hell out of there.

After a moment of waiting, Dean turns back to Sam offering an apologetic grin before he flicks off his flashlight and throws the doors open. Sam and his stretcher are dragged feet first out of the room as Dean runs blindly down the now smoke-filled hall.

Doing what he's told by keeping his eyes and mouth closed as they peel through the pitch-black building, Sam can't help but wonder how his brother can be running this fast without breathing or seeing where he's going. The answer is: not very well.

"Clear!" Dean hacks out after way too long, and Sam opens his eyes and inhales deeply as they come to a stop. He can barely make out his brother leaning against a wall, panting heavily, and coughing.

Sam lifts his head and pulls at his restraints in distress, when he notices the drugs aren't holding him back anymore. _Dean can't keep going like this... _"Let me up! I can help."

A flashlight beam approaches from around the corner just ahead of them, and Dean is still too doubled-over to notice. Sam growls in frustration and uses his limited reach to grasp for the shotgun on his chest. He takes it in his right hand just as the source of light rounds the corner, and he manages to blast the approaching asshole off his feet.

Dean jumps upright at the noise and watches the guy drop, turning back to Sam in surprise. Wheezing, he wordlessly puts the second shotgun in Sam's other hand and starts fumbling with the straps on the stretcher as he gets them moving again.

They take one last corner as Sam's left arm is freed, and he sees a parking lot illuminated by a dim street light through glass doors at the end of the hall. A weight seems to lift off his chest. _We're almost out! _He seriously doubted this escape would actually work.

But the feeling is too good to last as Dean suddenly trips and goes flying. He hits the ground rolling and his head slams against unforgiving plexiglass panes.

A trip-wire is pulled taut across the hallway and the front end of Sam's stretcher collapses over it, propping him up to watch as four kevlar-wearing SWAT guys in night-vision goggles file out of a room. They jump Dean who is too dazed from hitting the glass to react.

Sam shouts out and raises the shotgun in his free arm in an attempt to distract them as long as possible. He fires - praying he doesn't hit his brother - and takes an agonizingly long time to pump the gun single-handedly before firing again.

As the attackers recoil from the shotgun blasts, Dean collects himself enough to pull a couple of tasers out of his coat pocket, and jab them into the thighs of two guys. They let out strangled cries and drop just as Dean gets back to his feet with a snarl. Another guy drops from a crushing punch to his throat.

Dean is just about to demolish the last member, when something cold presses against Sam's neck and the now-empty shotgun is ripped from his grip by someone behind him.

"Hold it right there, Dean. Or your brother is getting his head blown off." It's that fucking sheriff again.

Sam's anger burns. Now wishing he had real bullets, he reaches for the gun in his restrained hand and almost has it aimed over his shoulder before a sharp hit to the temple stuns him and the shotgun is knocked to the floor. Briar quickly pins his wrist to the stretcher.

Dean stands frozen with a murderous expression in a flashlight beam. He's pointing his .45 mm at Briar while choking the last vertical SWAT member against the wall with his other hand. Sam gets his first real look at his brother since the whole ordeal began and instantly notices the blood saturating his grey shirt.

_He got hit..._ Sam's eyes glaze over with tears as they make eye contact. More armed SWAT officers pour through the backdoor and surround them, and somewhere Lucifer is cheering excitedly, but Sam pays no attention: he only has eyes for his brother.

"Drop the gun, the officer, and get on your knees!" a new voice echoes. "Now, Winchester. It's over."

Sam's heart beats frantically as Henrickson's words from all those years ago return with a vengeance, '_Isolation... in a sound-proof windowless cell so small that - between you and me - probably unconstitutional... __You two will never see each other again.'__  
_

Dean seems to shrink. His shoulders slump and the steel in his gaze vanishes. He glances at the gun in his grip, then back at Sam, seeming at war with himself.

Knowing exactly what he's thinking, Sam chokes out, "Dean, do it! It's alright... we've done enough... I'll see you soon, remember?" _Remember Heaven? _He can't hold back the tears anymore and they stream down his face.

Dean's back stiffens, and he appears decided. "No, Sam. This isn't how it ends. We still got work to do." He drops the gun, releases the SWAT guy, and sinks to his knees.

Sam howls in response and wrenches at the straps keeping him from his brother. "No! Dean you can't do this! You can't leave me alone with _Him_! Please, shoot me. Fucking _shoot _me!" He rocks the stretcher, knocking it over, and reaches for the fallen shotgun. _Somebody just kill me, _he thinks desperately, but no such luck as several hands simply grab Sam's free arm, restrain it again, and correct the stretcher.

The SWAT guys rush Dean and tackle him from behind, slamming his already-battered head against the floor as they cuff his hands behind his back. But Dean doesn't make a sound. He just looks back up at Sam with that Goddamned apologetic smile of his.

The Devil is whistling merrily, there are people talking, but the rest of the world ceases to exist as Sam strains to hear Dean.

"I thought I made this clear years ago: I can't kill you, Sammy. Stop asking me to."

* * *

FRIDAY LATE MORNING

Briar collapses into bed, completely drained. _That was the most emotionally jarring night possible. Period. _While waiting for sleep to take him, he tries to wrap his head around everything.

Sara is back home safe, and the monsters terrorizing the country have finally been caught... for good. Briar sees no way they could possibly get away this time. After the older brother went down, they were immediately loaded into separate SWAT vans and sent off to the maximum security prison in Lee County.

But Briar is having trouble feeling happy about it: he can't get the Winchesters' reactions to being separated out of his head. Sam was completely hysterical and struggling so much they had to sedate him again to prevent him from tearing out his stitches, and Dean remained stoic for a little while, but seemed to snap when he got to his own van. Apparently, he wasn't done fighting yet and kicked the shit out of two of the SWAT members trying to load him before somebody had the brains to use a taser._ Those brothers are the very definition of codependent. _Briar frowns at the memories.

Then there's the fact that _nobody,_ not a single one of his deputies was killed or even badly injured. _What is that about? _Not that Briar's complaining, but the Winchester had shotguns... and they were loaded with _salt_... What the fuck? They almost made it out using nonlethal force only, and Briar doesn't know why. _If these guys are really as heinous as they've been made out to be, then why didn't they kill anyone? They seemed so desperate to get away, why would they half-ass it?_

The sheriff snorts and tries to lay his worries to rest. _They're religious fanatics who torture and murder in ways that range from satanic sacrifice, to mutilations resembling bear attacks; their actions aren't going to make sense. They probably thought we were monsters and salt would kill us... _Briar smiles at the thought and relaxes into his pillow, allowing himself to feel satisfied that Charles and every other victim can finally get justice.

* * *

_Maybe I should have gone with death-by-cop after all, _Dean mourns in the back of the SWAT van. He's exhausted and trying to sleep, but can't: he has a killer headache from having his head bashed in _twice_, and he's rather painfully hogtied on the metal floor surrounded by six pissed-off SWAT guys. The graze on his side is held open and stings from his arms being pulled so tightly behind him, and it's still bleeding sluggishly.

_We'd be in Heaven right now... relaxing in the Roadhouse and chugging beer with Ash, and Ellen... Jo... Pamela... Bobby... __We could find Mom and Dad _- Dean's throat closes - _I wouldn't be headed for an electric chair after months in isolation, and Sam wouldn't be locked inside his head until Lucifer drains the life out of him. _He squeezes his eyes shut, pissed at himself. _Why didn't I pull the damned trigger?_

But Dean already knows why: he couldn't shoot Sam when he thought he was infected with the Croatoan virus, and he couldn't shoot Sam when he was holding a knife over Jo, threatening to kill her. Both times he begged Dean to kill him, and both times Dean refused. And what happened? Sam didn't actually have the virus, and it was a fucking demon threatening Jo.

So how could Dean kill his much-too-frequently-suicidal little brother this time? No matter how hopeless a situation seems, there is always the chance for it to get better. And although death would be a sweet release for them both at this point, they still have work to do. The world needs saving again, and Dean isn't ready to give up on it just yet.

After successfully stepping back from the proverbial cliff, Dean starts brainstorming ways to get the hell out of... _Where? _"Hey, Hondo Harrelson, where are we going?" he asks, hoping he doesn't get kicked for talking.

"Iowa State Penitentiary in Lee County," a deep voice answers mechanically.

"Uhuh... That a super max or no?"

"Super max," the voice answers. Dean can almost hear the stiff's smirk as he elaborates, "I suggest you pray to your dark overlord, or whatever you satanists do, 'cuz you're not getting away again."

_Awesome, _he thinks dryly. Then gets an idea. _Pray... Well if you insist..._"Angels!" he yells at the van's roof. The SWAT guys startle and point guns at him nervously. "Michael's vessel calling!"

No answer. _Maybe I shouldn't have led with the vessel thing, - _Dean scowls - _Or maybe I need to be more specific..._ But he doesn't know any _living_ angel's names. Unless...

"Cas..." Dean lowers his voice as some of his less-than-friendly guards start looking creeped out. "This is getting ridiculous. Me and Sam are heading for the Iowa State Penitentiary, so zap us out... I'm beg-" he's interrupted by a kick to his torn side.

"That's enough... fucking lunatic."

* * *

Emmanuel startles and drops his watering can as the voice bounces through his mind again. _Dean... Sam... Iowa State Penitentiary. I can work with that._

Forgetting the roses, Emmanuel runs into the house to find his wife. "Daphne! Dean called back, he's in Iowa," he calls.

Sweet Daphne steps out of the living room. "So, you're going now," she replies sadly. They've already discussed it: she doesn't need to ask.

"Yes. I want to know who I am..." He touches her shoulder gently.

She smiles, walks to her purse, and reaches for her wallet. She pulls out a wad of cash. "Iowa's two states over. You'll have to take the bus... I think I see now... God only wanted me to help you find your way back to yourself. This is goodbye." A tear runs down her cheek.

Emmanuel frowns. "No, it's not. I'm your husband. I'm not just going to forget that."

But she shakes her head. "You're special... Cas," - she trips over the new name - "Whoever that is, is too important for a girl like me. Now let me drive you to the bus station."

Wiping away her tears, Emmanuel cups her face. "Thank you."

* * *

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

The Cage looks however Lucifer wants it to look. Right now, it is a white cell containing a too-small cot, toilet, sink, and a perforated glass window into another room where a desk sits. But Sam doesn't care at all about his surroundings. He's just crouching in the corner and staring at the door, waiting for Lucifer to bring on the torture.

This particular scenario has been on constant repeat for years now. Sam gets locked in a small space until some monster comes in and tears him to pieces. That's when Dearest Satan comes along and lays a hand on some mutilated chunk of his body, magically putting Sam back together once again, creating a new cage, and the cycle begins anew. But this time is different, and he's a lot more worried about the change in routine than he is of impending death.

This time, Sam does not feel as though he was magically put back together. He's sweaty and shaky and _exhausted_, like he actually needs to sleep. He scoffs at the thought: there is no sleeping in the Cage, his body is never alive long enough to require it. Not that Lucifer would ever allow an escape like unconsciousness anyway.

Sam's also _sore_. He only ever experiences agony from being eviscerated, or eaten, or frozen, or set on fire, or drowned in acid. But now, he's just... _sore._ There are bandages all over him, but the _soreness _is coming from his left calf, which has started bleeding through grey sweatpants... on it's own... without any foreign object being shoved through it... _What is _that_ about?_

There are also the faded words, _'Not in Hell,' _written on his forearm beside the wrappings on his wrist. He actually chortled a little when he first saw that. _Really, Lucifer? That's not even a decent attempt at getting my hopes up._

The other difference - that has him freaking out the most - is how long he's been in here. Normally, Lucifer doesn't leave him alone for more than a few minutes, and he's been alone in this cell for _hours_... The separation is eating at him. So when Lucifer finally makes his appearance on the other side of the window, Sam is honestly relieved. But he won't dare show it.

This time, the Devil dresses like a doctor. He places a clipboard on the desk as he takes a seat. "Good afternoon, Sam. I'm Dr. Collard, and I'll be taking your case."

Sam just glares at him briefly before returning his gaze to the door. _Any second now..._

"Could you maybe lie on the bed please? It looks like you're damaging your leg crouching like that," Lucifer continues kindly.

_Is that why it's bleeding? _Sam narrows his eyes and doesn't move: he won't be able to defend himself if he's lying down. Not that he ever manages to last longer than a few seconds against Lucifer's pets anyway.

'Dr. Collard' doesn't sound phased. "Alright, you can stay there if you want. I've been told you haven't slept in several days. Can you tell me why?"

Sam blinks in confusion and turns to look at him. _He's letting me disobey? _"I haven't slept in 174 years... You know why."

Lucifer raises his eyebrows. "Umm... actually I don't. Care to remind me?"

"Not really," Sam barks. He just wants this weird interrogation over with so things can get back to normal.

Satan merely smiles and decides to change the subject, "I'm surprised you haven't been asking for your brother, you two seem quite attached."

"Adam? You haven't let me see him or Michael in decades."

Now Lucifer looks really confused. "I meant Dean..."

Sam flinches violently. His guard was down and the name hits him like a physical blow. Lucifer loves to pull out the 'Dean' card when he's least expecting it.

Over the years, Sam managed to build himself a nearly indestructible wall around the memory of his brother. Sometimes, he hides himself behind it and fantasizes about the happy life of Dean with Lisa, and Ben, and a safe roof over his head, and home-cooked meals, and football games, and new friends that don't get murdered, and nobody leaves him...

But these fantasies cause Sam a profound grief as well as a shelter. They always come back to the memory of how he left Dean all alone in that cemetery with Bobby's broken body, and his angel blown to smithereens.

Sam scowls furiously at Lucifer and his voice cracks as he says, "De... is fine. I'm not going to talk about him." He knows he's deluding himself. There will be no peace or happy ending for his brother, and the fact that they will never see each other again tears holes through Sam far worse than anything the Devil can do. He and his brother are literal soul-mates, after all.

After a deep breath and a lot of effort, Sam locks thoughts of Dean back behind the wall.

Lucifer tilts his head oddly, and starts scratching notes down on the clipboard. "Do you want to talk about Adam or Michael?"

But Sam's had enough: this is just too far out of his comfort zone. "Cut the shit and start the mutilating already!" he growls and tenses. He knows physical torture. He can trust it, and he's been waiting long enough.

"Do you expect me to hurt you?" Lucifer asks, startled.

"Obviously," Sam rolls his eyes.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here to help."

Sam is starting to feel real anger now. "What the fuck is this? You back to trying to convince me to like you? To _like_ you for fixing me up just to kill me over and over?"

"Who do you think I am?" Lucifer asks, still awfully calm.

Sam sighs exasperatedly. "Lucifer! Satan, the Devil, which do you prefer?"

Lucifer pauses for a minute to take some notes, then asks, "Do you like pain, Sam?"

Eyes widening at the question, Sam quickly tries to backtrack. _Am I making it obvious?_ "No!" he replies, perhaps a little too quickly. "It's just... anything beats having to talk to you like this..."

"I'm not the Devil. And I'm not going to intentionally cause you pain. Nobody here will, I promise."

_No... NO... _Sam presses his back against the wall. He's been found out, and Lucifer has never broken a promise... _No more pain? _Sam can't breath. After almost two centuries of being tossed into torture scenario after torture scenario, only two things have ever remained constant: Lucifer's presence, and pain. They are what keep him anchored in an ever-changing reality, and now Lucifer is going to stop the torture?

Sam desperately tries to repair the damage. "I'm... I... thank you," he stutters out, trying and failing to hide his horror.

But the damage is done. Lucifer stands up, saying, "That's enough for today. I'll come talk with you again tomorrow. Orderlies will be in shortly with some dinner and replace that bandage on your leg." And then he's gone.

Sam collapses onto the floor and curls in on himself. _What did I just do!?_ Lucifer is leaving him for a whole day and nothing is going to hurt him... It's too much too fast.

Tearing through his shirt and the bandages on his shoulder, Sam finds a stitched bullet wound beneath his collar bone. Without pausing to think about where the hell it came from, he digs his finger in and yanks out the stitches. He starts to relax as blood gushes everywhere and he keeps digging, soaking up the agony like a dry sponge to water.

Sam has ripped the wound wide enough to fit his entire hand inside by the time his cell bursts open and orderlies rush him. He feels relieved at first, thinking they are the monsters he's been waiting for, but then he notices they're carrying a syringe and a first aid kit instead of knives and hot pokers.

Sam cowers in disbelief and tries to kick them away. "No! I'm not done! Get off... Get the fuck OFF!"

It doesn't take long for a brief shot of adrenaline to fade away and he is easily flattened against the now blood-soaked floor. _Why am I so weak? _His last vestige of strength fades as a needle finds his neck, and he can't help but lie limply as the orderlies - who are by far the worst monsters - work to _fix _his shoulder and take away his pain.

* * *

SATURDAY NIGHT

Dean had started pacing hours ago, and it's really more like spinning in circles since his cell is so small. Two steps one way, find the wall, turn around, two steps back, find the other wall, turn around, repeat...

At least 24 hours alone in this completely silent and pitch-black room has begun to wear on him. The only time he gets light is when hands push crappy sandwiches on paper plates through a flap and he's temporarily blinded by a dimly-lit hallway. Besides the flap and a tiny blocked window, the door has no handle, no lock, no nothing.

Dean remained optimistic about escape for the first few hours. He combed the cell with his hands feeling for any weakness or potential weapons, but there is nothing. He called for help and faked a seizure in the hopes of being taken to an infirmary - or at the very least to get the door open - but nobody came. He knows he's being watched via cameras, so either they knew he was faking, or they just don't care... Neither conclusion is good, so now he paces.

Doing nothing and sitting still are not things that Dean does well: he's lived life almost entirely on the road, taking on job after job. Even in Hell he always had a job: first taking torture, and eventually providing torture... And in Hell there were bright fires to see by, demons to taunt... he knew Sam was safe(ish)... and he didn't bother thinking of escape: he had been bracing himself for a year on the concept of eternal damnation.

But _this_..._. _He can't handle this tiny fucking box. Sam is dying in slow motion somewhere, and Dean needs to get _out. _

To be locked up and hated by people they've given more than their lives to save is maddening enough, but he can't handle this complete _nothing_. Suppressed memories creep to the surface with no distractions; hellfire blankets his vision and screams fill his ears as he dwells on what Sam could be going through now. He can imagine, but can't possibly know what 180 years in the Cage felt like.

_Feels like, _Dean thinks angrily as he paces. Lucifer keeps pulling Sam into the Cage, and spitting him back out by screwing with his mind... _How long has he been without sleep now? Six, seven days? _He has no sense of time in this cell._ How much longer does Sam have?_

"Fuck!" he shouts and starts punching at the door, just to hear something other than cries of his past victims. He keeps ten years of torturing souls locked in his head, and their voices are deafening in all this silence... And he can't hide from the thoughts of Sam being tortured just like them...

After what he assumes is several minutes of repeatedly punching the metal door - and gaining a few broken knuckles - Dean jumps back as the door's barred window slides open. His eyes take forever to adjust to the dim-yet-blinding light, but when they do, his heart almost stops beating.

"Cas...?" Dean breathes at the blue eyes peering in at him. The screams retreat as relief washes over him, but is quickly replaced with disbelief. "You... you died..." _Please, tell me I'm not just hallucinating..._

"You're Dean?" the angel replies softly, almost disappointedly.

"Yeah, Cas what the hell are you still doing out there, get in here! And what took so long?" Dean starts out happily, but now he's just freaking out.

Cas frowns. "I heard your voice in my head... calling me. Do you know who... what... I am?"

Eyes widening in shock, Dean takes a second to process this. _He doesn't know he's an angel... He doesn't know me? I wouldn't hallucinate this..._

Cas betrayed them, went on a killing rampage, sought forgiveness, and was supposedly killed by monsters that he set free from Purgatory. Now he has amnesia? _Fuck... if I say the wrong thing he could snap... disappear... _Dean stalls for time while he struggles to come up with something. "Uhh... How did you get down here?"

"I'm not sure." Cas shrugs and looks down the hallway. "A guard said I couldn't come to see you, but I had to. Nobody tried to stop me. It's like they couldn't even see me... Now, can you tell me why?"

Dean chooses his words carefully, "Yeah, I've known you for years... and if you get me and my brother out of here, I'll tell you all about yourself."

But the angel shakes his head, looking angry. "Don't try to manipulate me. I asked the guard about you. The things you've done... I don't even know what I was expecting to find here." He starts to walk away.

"CAS!" Dean runs to the bars, getting as close as possible. "I know you can look into people and see things. I'm begging you... Do I look like the murderer they say I am?"

Cas hesitates, but then their eyes meet and Dean's heart leaps at the familiar feeling of being x-rayed. "Yes... you do. You are a monster. And I do think we've met before, but I no longer want to know who I was. I'm not _Cas. _My name is Emmanuel, and I have a wife to go home to." With that, he keeps walking.

He may as well have punched Dean in the gut. _He saw... FUCK! _"Cas! Castiel! No... please you don't understand... I'm not _that_... not anymore!"

But Cas doesn't stop or turn around, and he's quickly out of sight.

A guard comes down the hall. "Hey, shut the hell up! How did this thing open?" The small window is abruptly shut, and Dean is plunged back into darkness.

He stands there for a moment, stunned. And then he pounds his bloodied fists against the door again. All plans to hide the truth go out the window, and his throat feels as though it's being ripped apart as he screams, "No, Cas... you DO NOT get to leave me here! You can't leave us here, you have to fix Sam! I'm going to pray at you until you come back, you feathery son of a bitch! _You need to clean up your mess!_"


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about.**

**Team Free Will: Reunion**

**Last chapter (will add epilogue). Thanks for reading and reviewing! This story is actually the first I've EVER written outside of grade school homework assignments - a decade ago (O_o) - and is the result of being without internet for 9 whole days.**

* * *

SATURDAY NIGHT

"Just look at you. Hard to believe you're the guy who saved the world once," Lucifer sighs with satisfaction and starts blowing bubbles.

Sam just lies on his side, staring at the padded wall. He's too drugged out and tired to want to sit up, and with his arms strapped to his chest, he doubts he even has the strength to lift himself anyway.

"Come on, Sam. Talk to me, it's not like you have anything else to do! You gotta admit, that little trip down memory lane was brilliant, wasn't it? You know you were talking to an actual shrink? I think you made his year with that little performance..."

Lucifer keeps talking, but Sam tunes it out. He can't even muster the energy to feel embarrassed for trying to rip his own heart out. _So this is how my life ends... This is fucking pathetic. _He remembers it all now: being thrown into the later years of the Cage when Lucifer decided to stop the torture...

Sam had never been more unstable. All too suddenly, no monsters came at him, nothing dug into him, or burned him, or ate him, so he started tearing himself apart. It took a year for him to get used to existing without pain, to start appreciating the lack of it, before the torture returned. Whenever he accidentally made it clear he liked something, Satan would take it away.

Lucifer pouts and puts himself in Sam's line of sight. "Fine, if you're going to ignore me like that, we're going back to the pit. Any particular decade you'd like to relive?"

But Sam is too tired... too done with everything to care. _This could be it. My last sane moment... _His throat burns as he thinks of Dean: the only person he is leaving behind... The only person who loves him, who will even miss him... who is currently awaiting execution _because_ of him.

_I'm the reason for this... It's my fault... It's always my fault. I got Mom killed, Dad went to Hell because I couldn't kill him, and Dean went to Hell because I couldn't kill Jake. I started the Apocalypse, I jumped into the Cage and left Dean alone, I let him get turned -_ Sam's eyes water -_ and now I've gotten him locked in isolation while I lie here and die on him again... All I ever do is hurt him..._

Dean will stupidly blame himself for this, for failing to be the perfect big brother. And this time, he doesn't even have Bobby or his angel to fall back on. All he has is his little brother... and that little brother is leaving.

"Do you need another minute to torture yourself? 'Cuz I'm totally loving the tears there, buddy," Lucifer laughs.

Sam glares back, defiant to the end. He has to do _something_... but really, what is there to do? Pray? God doesn't give a shit about him, He apparently said so... But there was one angel who did...

"Castiel!" he coughs through a dry throat, "It's Sam... If you're alive... even if you're not... please just look out for Dean. He needs you, man. I screwed up... again. So you have to be there for him, okay? Like last time... and the time before that... I won't blame you for knocking my Hell Wall down... or for opening Purgatory. You thought you were doing the right thing, and I know what it's like for that to blow up in your face... I'll forgive you, Cas." Sam closes his eyes. _See you soon, Dean. I'm sorry..._

Lucifer cracks his knuckles. "Ready to go then? Any more dead angels you wanna pray to?" - he pauses expectantly, clearly enjoying himself - "No? Alright, please keep your arms and legs inside the straightjacket!" He snaps his fingers, and Sam is gone.

* * *

Dean slumps against the door of his cell, exhausted. His hands are bloody but he keeps punching, and his throat is torn but he keeps talking. All he has left is the slim chance he can get through to the real Cas. To get him to remember what he did, and not fly away out of guilt.

Dean Winchester never grovels, but he's groveling now. "Cas, please... you need to help Sam... You can leave me here, just please get Sam... He doesn't deserve any of this... but you're right, okay? I do... I've failed everything I've ever cared about... Just... fix my little brother... 'cuz I can't..."

* * *

Emmanuel topples to the lobby floor and presses his hands to his ears as the brothers' voices hit him simultaneously. The torment behind the words collide in his head and it literally knocks him off his feet.

Dean and Sam Winchester: each utterly defeated and praying for this _Castiel _to save not themselves, but each other... and both so wracked with guilt... how could they possibly be the monsters the world thinks they are?

And then Castiel remembers... everything. Millions upon millions of years of memories press into his mind all at once, and he screams as the sheer volume of knowledge and experiences seem to expand his vessel's brain beyond the boundaries of his skull. Glass doors shatter around him in response, several people in the lobby shriek and cower, and then it's over as quickly as it came.

Cas lies motionless on the floor as he remembers the horrible things he did on Earth, in Heaven, and to the Winchesters, all fight for his attention. He murdered humans, and countless angels... He turned his back on Dean, drove Sam insane, and then left them with God's first and worst creations.

_Father... what have I done...? _His face contorts in horror. _Did you bring me back again...?_ _Why!?_

Sam and Dean's desperate prayers enter the forefront of his mind. _Sam... _He closes his eyes and wants nothing more than to die._ Sam Winchester: the boy with the demon blood who was supposed to bring the end of the world and instead saved it, is broken and dying because I thought it would make a good distraction for Dean..._

Cas curls in on himself and pulls at his hair. _And Sam... forgives me? How could he possibly... And Dean... _He crumples even further under the guilt. _I will never be forgiven. I _should_ never be forgiven... Is this why you brought me back, Father? To feel this? _

After a moment the initial shock wears off, and he hears Dean's fading prayer. Cas fights to pull himself together somewhat, and climbs to his feet. _Or do you... expect me to fix it?_

The people in the lobby stare at him fearfully, and a prison guard comes running around the corner. "Hey, what happened? Is everyone oka-" he stops and places a hand on his baton when he notices all eyes fixed on Cas, who stands relatively calm in the centre of the room. "Sir? Are you responsible for this?"

"Yes," he replies sadly, and vanishes.

* * *

_Straightjacket... padded room... How original, _Sam thinks darkly. Although, after 67 years of torture, there has to be some repeats by now.

Lucifer pops into the room, looking _distraught. _"I should never have broken your wall, Sam. I'm here to make it right," he steps closer with an arm outstretched.

Sam recoils into the corner. _What the hell? But... I'm not dead yet... What is he doing? _Lucifer only ever touches him to bring him back to life... or to...

Sam's heart almost stops. "No! Get the fuck away from me! I don't want you to... I will NEVER want you to!"

Lucifer takes a step back, feigning confusion and hurt. "But... I did this. I can fix you."

"I'm not broken! Please... don't. Not again..." Sam can't help but plead: this is the only situation in which he will plead.

Lucifer looks completely lost, and for whatever reason, disappears.

* * *

Dean is now unabashedly sobbing. It's not like anybody will care anyway. To have Cas back... to be given hope and then ignored and betrayed again... It's enough to break him.

Suddenly, a very dim light shines behind him and a hand rests on his shoulder. He startles and turns to see a slightly glowing Cas standing in the middle of the cell.

Dean doesn't move or speak. He doesn't need to. Cas' expression says it all: it is fearful, and sad, and trusting, and... puzzled. This is the real Castiel.

Dean can't help it. He struggles to his feet and throws his arms around the angel, surprising them both, but he is just so fucking relieved. Cas doesn't seem to know how to respond, and just stiffens under the embrace... It's awkward, but Dean doesn't care: he's not somebody who handles being alone all that well.

He releases Cas after a moment, and before he can find his tongue, Cas takes Dean's hands in his own and mends his would-have-been-permanently-disfigured knuckles, his throat, his aching head, and the graze on his side. "I went to Sam first," the angel says in his gravel-voice. "He won't let me heal him. He is adamant that he's already whole."

Dean lets out a watery chuckle and flexes his knuckles experimentally. "Of course he is. Who knows what's going through his head? He probably thinks you're a clown. Take me to him."

Cas places a hand on Dean's shoulder again and their feet instantly sink into the cushioned floor: they're in a padded room.

_Aw, Sammy... _Dean's gut twists as he lays eyes on the sight he's been dreading ever since he made a deal with Death: his trembling little brother in a straightjacket. He's curled into the far corner of the room, knees up and hiding behind them.

"We won't be seen or heard. No one will interrupt," Cas says quietly and backs up a bit to give them some space.

"Sammy? Hey, it's me..." Dean moves forward cautiously, knowing Sam won't believe him. "I don't know what you're seeing... but this is Cas and he's going to fix you, okay? Just let him."

Sam lifts bloodshot eyes to Dean in shock, and then glares at Cas. "You brought... you want... _Him_ to watch? You twisted fuck!" he screeches and somehow presses himself into the corner even further.

Heart already broken, Dean turns away. "Do it, Cas. He's not home. Don't feel bad, just make it quick."

He clenches his jaw as he hears Sam whimper in terror, "Please... Lucifer... _Dean_, STOP HIM!" After a moment, there is a light and Dean plucks up the courage to look.

Cas has a glowing hand on Sam's forehead, who has his eyes shut tight. The bags under his eyes disappear and his pale skin gets some colour back as the visible effects of sleep deprivation vanish. Cas removes his hand.

"Did it work?" Dean asks breathlessly, already believing it.

Cas looks troubled. "No... The only thing I can do is put the Wall back together... but there's nothing left to rebuild. It crumbled... The pieces got crushed to dust by whatever's happening inside his head right now."

"What?" Dean's voice breaks. "You're saying there's nothing? He's gonna be like this until his candle blows out?"

"I'm sorry. This isn't a problem I can make disappear. You know that."

Sam reminds them he's still there, "Wha... what the fuck kind of torture is this?" he asks incredulously.

Dean twitches a sad smile. _Even in the Cage talking to Lucifer, he still rocks the bitch-face. _

And then Sam jerks and looks up at them with relief, "Dean! Cas? Is that you?"

"Sam? You with us for real?" Dean doesn't get his hopes up this time.

"Yeah, Lucifer could only screw with me because I had no sleep... I feel fine now. Thanks Cas!" Sam is speaking awfully loud and has happy tears in his eyes.

"Woah now, don't get too excited," Dean smirks slightly.

"Sorry, what?" Sam yells, "I can't hear you! Lucifer is yelling in my ear. He's totally pissed off he has to start all over again." He is looking way too okay with that.

The smirk slides off Dean's face and he glances at Cas, who is staring at his feet.

An alarm starts blaring outside the cell. _They must have just noticed I'm gone. _Dean clears his throat. "Cas? we still need to get out of here. Zap us to Rufus' cabin. Whitefish, Montana. Has a raised back deck, two stories, big gnarly tree next to it."

After a few seconds, Cas looks up and his face is set. He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder and the other on Sam's, who visibly flinches at the contact.

* * *

Cas grimaces as a relatively sane Sam cringes away from his touch. _I'm supposed to be an angel... I should not instill fear in my friends... _And Sam even thanked him. _All I did was extend his life by a few more days. His memories of the Cage will continue to eat at him... and he _thanked_ me._

The trio appear in a rundown cabin in the middle of nowhere. Coming to a decision, Cas looks around. "Where are all of your things? And your car? It's not outside." _I imagine I won't be of much help after tonight..._

Dean runs to the fridge and grabs himself a beer, cracks it open and chugs it before tossing another to Sam, who grins appreciatively and sinks into the red couch.

After his bottle is empty - in a matter of seconds - Dean responds cagily, "Algona, Iowa. Bags are in an empty house's kitchen cupboards. Just North of the Burr Oak Motel."

Sam takes a hesitant sip of his own beer and adds, "We aren't using the Impala."

Cas takes off, grabs the bags, and returns just as Dean gets himself another beer. _He's drinking more, _Cas thinks morosely as he drops their things on the cluttered coffee table.

Dean says nothing as he starts rummaging through his duffel, making sure everything is there as Sam does the same.

There is an awkward silence.

Then Dean sighs appreciatively as he picks up Bobby's flask and swallows most of the contents. Sam frowns but doesn't say anything.

Cas startles and glues his eyes to the flask with sudden sadness: he can sense a familiar and weak spirit clinging to it... _He died? And still chose to remain with them... He's a better man than I._

He takes a deep breath and tries to break the silence. "I'm uhh, sorry... about Bobby."_  
_

He fails. The brothers only look more miserable.

Cas tries again. "Sam... Dean... I don't expect or deserve your forgiveness, but I am going to make this right."

Sam glances up at him with a tiny smile, but then jumps as Dean slams the flask down on the counter and glares at Cas with disgust. "You just said you can't fix him. You can't make this right!"

Barely able to maintain eye contact, Cas replies, "I can't get rid of Sam's psychosis, but I may be able to shift it."

Dean blinks in confusion - clearly waiting for him to elaborate - but Cas can't look at him anymore. He turns to Sam on the couch. "Sam, this may hurt. And if I can't tell you again, I'm sorry I ever did this to you."

Sam's eyes widen, lets out a startled, "Wha-" and almost pulls away as Cas presses a palm against his forehead once again.

Cas lowers his head. "I'll be fine." He doesn't want to meet their enraged and/or fearful expressions as he says it.

* * *

Dean almost jumps between them this time as he hears Sam's strangled scream. _What the hell is he doing to him now!? _But he stops as bright red veins of light to travel through Sam's eyes, into the hand on his head, and eventually reach into Cas' own eyes.

The light fades after a moment and Sam shoots off the couch with a harsh intake of breath, just as the angel collapses to the floor. "Cas!" Sam cries, and lifts him up, shaking him. "What did you do?" he turns to Dean, beseeching, "What did he _do_?"

Dean just stares at them, open mouthed. "I think he took Lucifer out of your head... Did he take Lucifer out of your head?"

Sam looks frantically around the cabin. "He's gone... Dean... he's gone!" He practically drops Cas back on the floor in his search.

Dean crouches and puts a wary hand on his panicked brother, trying to ground him. "Sam, what's wrong? This is a good thing, right?"

Sam looks at him then, swallowing convulsively. "Yeah. It's just... ever since Detroit he's been... and now..."

Dean feels like he's been kicked in the gut. _He's... missing Lucifer? _"Don't Stockholm syndrome on me, okay? It's _Satan, _Sam!" He can't keep the fear out of his voice.

Shaking beneath his grip, Sam keeps looking around the room, so Dean slaps him across face on impulse. "Hey! Look at me. You're _fine_! He was killing you!"

The hit seems to get Sam's attention and he makes brief eye contact, before slamming his head into Dean's chest and breaks down sobbing.

Startled and more than a little sick to his stomach, Dean wraps his brother in a tight hug. _Aw Sammy... What the fuck did Lucifer do to you? _

After a minute or two, the sobbing stops and Sam seems to get himself back under control. He pulls away, looking puffy-eyed and utterly shell-shocked towards Cas. "What do you think's happening to him? He's an angel after all... If he's... nuts now, he could do a lot of damage."

Immensely grateful for the change of subject, Dean stands and says, "He did say he'd be fine... C'mon, help me lift him. Or wait... Your leg still busted?"

Sam shakes his head, and says quietly, "He fixed everything..."

"Not everything," Dean grumbles as they drop Comatose-Cas on the couch. Then he straightens and takes spray paint out of his bag. "If he doesn't wake up in the near future, we go and he stays. We put up extra protection on the house, and we lock him in... We can't exactly take him with us."

"You want to leave him alone like this?" Sam asks disbelieving. "Dean, if it's anything like what I-"

Dean interrupts with a raised hand. _Of course I don't want to..._ "We'll leave him a phone and our numbers, okay? We'll come back as soon as he's up. When word gets out about how we escaped we'll be back on Crowley's radar... We can't protect him... Not really. This is safer."

Sam huffs humourlessly. "What is safe? We didn't fake our deaths this time. We'll be back on the top of America's Most Wanted by morning. How can we even go out in public?"

_Oh fuck... Forgot about that..._ Dean starts pacing in frustration. "We had cameras on us and we just vanished, right?... Maybe they'll cover it up..." _Or maybe Dick Roman will drop dead of a heart attack..._

* * *

TUESDAY MORNING

Sam stands in the living room, frowning as he watches Cas' face twitch. It's been more than two days and he still hasn't woken. They can't wait around anymore.

Dean sighs as he finishes adding the extra Enochian symbols to the walls. Now angels are not only locked out of the cabin, but any currently inside are trapped and relatively powerless.

Sam throws the packed duffel over his shoulder. _It's way too quiet in here..._ The lack of laughing and singing and taunting has Sam feeling a bittersweet emptiness. He never expected to get away from Lucifer, and now that he has, he is honestly both ecstatic and heartbroken. Ecstatic because he can finally eat without wanting to throw up, and sleep comes almost easily; heartbroken because he spent a few lifetimes with Lucifer, and now he's gone... The grief leaves Sam thinking Cas managed to take some of his sanity as well as his Hell.

_And why did he do that? _Sam wonders for the hundredth time. The angel has never shown much affection for him, outright calling him an abomination at times; yet here he is, suffering Sam's horrors. _He did it b__ecause he's guilty... He screwed up and broke the world. He probably wanted to die. _Sam knows that feeling well, and he had already forgiven Cas. Never really blamed him in the first place, actually.

Dean however, seems to be having a hard time with the whole thing, and has put up the walls that not even Sam can crack. He snorts derisively at the news on TV before flicking it off, then drops a cell phone and note on the coffee table.

Sam smiles at the blank screen. "Cas helped us more than he knows."

Dean's mouth twitches. "Great. I'm glad some good came out of the murderous rampage he went on... We need new phones. We're down to one now," he adds mechanically.

Sam nods absently. "Hey, Dean?" - he pauses to put his thoughts together - "I know you're pissed... but he's our frie-"

"We don't have friends. All our friends are dead." Dean scowls and rams the spray paint -among other things - into his bag.

Sam is about to try and voice his complaints again, but stops as Dean tosses something at Cas, still wearing the scowl.

Having no idea that Dean kept it all this time, Sam grins as the filthy and stained trench coat blankets the angel once more.

The angry expression on Dean's face makes it look like he's throwing away their relationship, but Sam knows better: he is offering Cas a reluctant thank you, and the chance to try again.

Dean's features eventually soften and he looks up. "Let's hit the road, Sammy." His tone is not happy exactly, but it's the lightest it's been in a long time.

'Team Free Will' just might be getting back together.

* * *

**Epilogue to come!**

**I wanted it to fit roughly into the actual storyline, and to me locking Cas in the cabin makes a LOT more sense than leaving him in a mental hospital where he could just up and go anywhere and do anything the second he woke up. They had no way of knowing how crazy he would be!**

**Since in 7x21 they all end up at the cabin anyway, I figured it fit nicely. Lets say Cas wakes up because of the tablet and calls them, they run into Meg on their way back, and Kevin uses his tablet-finding-prophet-powers to follow them. The end.**


	6. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything I'm writing about.**

**Team Free Will: Reunion**

**Epilogue**

* * *

SUNDAY MORNING _(morning after escape)_

Briar starts hurling his breakfast across the kitchen, and comes very close to smashing his laptop. The Winchester's are once again all over the news, but this time it isn't about their capture and the brave men who arrested them, nor is it about the impending trial that dominated national news ever since... Both just vanished... First Dean, then Sam. Security cameras on and around them pick up no foul play, except that one second the brothers were hallucinating and freaking out in their cells, and the next... they disappeared into thin air.

Although, most news stations aren't saying they escaped: they're saying the brothers were taken by 'God' Himself. Several eye witnesses and some surviving camera footage confirms that the man who posed as God - and started murdering people a few months back - showed up at the prison and sent off a shockwave that shattered the front doors and windows, then disappeared just before Sam and Dean did.

And it's not just the fringe religious groups saying it either. It's all over mainstream media with varying levels of bullshit attached. The prevailing theory is that God decided to exact judgement on the notorious Winchesters and dragged them to Hell. Briar throws his full mug of coffee against the wall - getting the boiling liquid all over his hands - and the ceramic smashes to bits.

"Shit!" Briar rages as he dashes to the sink to run cold water over his burns. _Why__ is everyone playing along!? __This 'God'__ is obviously their accomplice! He manipulated the cameras and the eye witnesses, and snuck the brothers out somehow._ Briar didn't believe the advanced hocus-pocus when this poser first started killing 'evil' people, and he isn't believing it now. What he _does_ believe is that a religious extremist like him would be drawn to the Winchesters like a tween girl is drawn to Justin Bieber.

Briar thinks back to Friday morning after the brothers were carted away. _I swear they create a bubble of insanity wherever they go..._He got a call from a very-much-alive Trish Mason, who came home to find her husband murdered with a headless lady next to him. After DNA testing, it was confirmed that the dead woman was actually Trish's identical twin sister that nobody knew existed. Not even Trish.

_And Dean riddled her with silver bullets and decapitated her! _Briar fumes. _Why didn't I just shoot them!?_

THE END

* * *

**I can confirm that both Sam and Dean found watching the news that morning hilarious.**

**Thanks for your interest!**


End file.
